CHAPTER 13

Lydia stood in the courtyard watching the loading of an immense amount of baggage—so much that both of the Danbury landaus had been pressed into service for the trip. A flurry of activity had galvanized the household in recent days. From footmen to maids, it seemed everyone had an errand to run.

Legacy awaited them in Portsmouth. Was it really possible that she was about to set sail for an exotic island in the Indian Ocean? She shook her head at the vagaries of her existence.

Mrs Malloy tapped her on the shoulder. “This is for you.” She extended a small paper-covered parcel.

“Dear Mrs Malloy, you have been so good to me.” Lydia embraced the older woman. They had grown close over the weeks of Lydia’s sojourn in the house. Mrs Malloy had taken her under her wing and Lydia had learned much about the running of a large household, offering in exchange her own expertise in managing the household expenses. Now when they returned to London, she might have another possible avenue of employment. And perhaps even a letter of reference from Mrs Malloy, which would be worth far more than its weight in gold. Beyond all that, Lydia would miss her. She had been an oasis of calm practicality.

“Take care. And come back soon. I need your help with the accounts.” Mrs Malloy smiled despite the tears pooling in her grey eyes.

“I shall miss you, Mrs Malloy. Thank you for all your kindness.” Lydia sniffed and held her eyes open wide.

“I’ll be praying for you, girl. But remember, justice is one thing and vengeance is another.” With one last squeeze of her hand, Mrs Malloy stepped back.

Lord Danbury and Mr Harting awaited her. She turned and climbed into the carriage, blinking rapidly. She would not cry. Lord Danbury would have her out of the carriage in a trice if he suspected the slightest weakness. She needed something to distract her mind.

Lydia leaned forward and watched as London rattled past in all its stateliness and shabbiness, splendour and grime. Would she ever see it again?

It was not until they left the city behind them, and the gentlemen were involved in desultory conversation about mutual acquaintances, that Lydia opened Mrs Malloy’s package. Inside she found a small Bible. Used, but still an expensive gift on a housekeeper’s salary. Lydia bit her lip. She had taken her father’s Bible with her to the Green Peacock after his death, but it had disappeared like all her other meagre treasures. She cracked open the spine and turned to the first whisper-thin page.

My Dear Lydia,

I hope this book will come to mean as much to you as it does to me. I hesitated to mention it before for fear of raising melancholy memories, but I knew your mother. She was a fine lady and I always admired her. You can be proud of your lineage. I believe she’d be proud of you.

Yr obt. svt.
Martha Malloy

Lydia blinked furiously. Tears could wait. They had to wait.

The carriages kept up a steady pace throughout the long morning, stopping only to change horses and allow the passengers to eat at noon. Despite the landaus’ excellent springs, the road was in terrible repair, and the passengers were jostled until Lydia thought her teeth might rattle loose from her head.

Conversation had long since languished. Lydia could not read any longer and it even grew difficult to think. Every thought was jarred out of place as soon as it formed.

A dismal rain began to fall. The roads degenerated into lengthy tracks of mud. As they entered the small hamlet of Lower Ditton, the lead carriage sank almost to its axels in thick country mire.

Passengers, footmen and coachmen piled out into the cold drizzle to take stock of the situation. Fixing his hat lower on his head, Lord Danbury sent Lydia ahead to the inn to fetch assistance and, she suspected, to get out of the rain. He and Harting stayed to direct the servants in extricating their vehicle.

Lydia slogged through the mud. Her pattens helped some, but she held her skirts high anyway. She was not going to allow a new gown to be ruined so soon.

The inn looked grumpy and dilapidated, with sagging eaves like an old man’s lowering eyebrows. As if the rain had washed away any veneer of good manners, the innkeeper sniffed in apparent disapproval of her bedraggled appearance. Not that he was a fashion plate himself: his boots were down at the heels, shirt cuffs frayed, apron a constellation of spatters and stains. Lydia peered back out through the deluge; it was the only inn visible. One would have thought that on such a well-travelled route there would be more accommodations to hand.

Lydia shoved sodden tendrils of hair away from her face, and pasted on a cheery smile. “Good evening, sir. Our coach has had a mishap, and we are in need of assistance and lodging.”

In a few moments, Lydia dispatched the post boy with a team of horses to help drag the landau from the mire, and arranged for rooms and a hot meal. The cook put kettles of water on the fire so the gentlemen could wash when they came in.

Taking possession of the most comfortable nook in the threadbare private sitting room, Lydia reserved the seats nearest the fire for the gentlemen. They would be as cold as Fenn’s heart after their set-to with rain and mud.

Some twenty minutes passed before a flurry of activity announced the arrival of the sopping and disgruntled gentlemen. Lydia poured two steaming cups of tea and added healthy doses of sugar to help ward off a chill.

“I’m sure you are near frozen. This ought…” She glanced up and broke off in mid-sentence.

They looked as if they had been in a wrestling match with the earth. From head to foot they were smeared with gelatinous muck. Lydia opened her mouth but Lord Danbury preempted her with an admonitory hand.

“Don’t ask.” A glob of mud dropped from his raised arm and landed with a loud plop on the wooden slats of the parlour floor.

Lydia bit her lip—hard. A sense of the absurd tickled the back of her throat. She couldn’t help it. A chuckle slipped out, and then another. More laughter burbled up, clamouring to escape.

Lord Danbury held his glower for a moment, but then she caught his glance sliding over to Harting. The grim line of his mouth tremored. For an instant he seemed to struggle with his composure. He lost the battle; an explosive guffaw escaped. In an instant they were all laughing.

Standing half bent, Danbury clutched his side. “Harting,” he wheezed, after a long moment, “you look ridiculous.”

Lydia bustled about, showing the footmen where they could get warm and clean, and directing the inn’s sleepy-eyed maid to take the hot water up to their chambers. Lord Danbury reappeared, freshly bathed, and attired in a clean suit of warm wool. He sank, sighing, into the chair Lydia had reserved for him and propped his feet on the grate.

Harting appeared a few moments later, shooting his cuffs and sniffing the air in appreciation as the meal was brought in. Piping hot beef stew, and crusty bread along with warm apple cider filled the platters presented by the innkeeper and his wife. The simple, hearty fare proved warm and filling.

“This establishment isn’t exactly prepossessing, but you have managed to goad the staff into a credible showing.” Lord Danbury pushed his bowl away, sighing in contentment.

Lydia nodded in acknowledgment of the compliment. “I trust you are recovered from your… exertions?”

“Almost. You mustn’t rush a man’s recovery. It is highly dangerous to all concerned.” He stretched his feet towards the fire again, warming them lazily against the grate. He looked like a self-satisfied cat, sunning itself in a window.

“What damage was done to the landau?”

Lord Danbury grimaced, his indolent satisfaction disappearing. “We were quite lucky. There was no real damage to the carriage. We cannot proceed, however, until this abysmal weather clears up.” He shrugged in almost Gallic fashion. “The post boy is apparently a bit of a sage regarding the weather. He advises me that the rain will stop within the hour. Then we simply wait for things to dry out a bit. As it is, we wouldn’t make a mile before becoming stuck again.”

Glum silence descended, as drenching as the rain. Lydia picked at a loose thread from her wrap. She crossed her ankles in ladylike fashion; but one heel bobbed up and down in incessant rhythm. Each time she realized what she was doing, she stopped and shifted positions. In a few minutes she would catch herself at it again. The minutes hobbled by.

The murderer seemed to be slipping right through her fingers. She’d been so busy with the preparations that she hadn’t thought about the possibility that the killer wouldn’t be lured by their grand plan. But what if he learned of the expedition and simply decided to wait for them to bring the throne back to England and then steal it? If that were the case, she supposed, they would have an opportunity to catch him when they returned. At some point he must make a move for the treasure he murdered to obtain. It was a good plan. It had to work.

Once more she stilled the nervous movement of her foot. She couldn’t help it. Her body knew they had no business sitting here when a murderer roamed loose. But what could they do? They were trapped.

Unable to bear the dour restiveness that pervaded their parlour, Anthony took refuge in his room, but he carried the atmosphere within him like a disease. He’d no sooner entered than he set to pacing. There must be a way to get to Portsmouth more quickly. If the roads weren’t dry in the morning he’d take one of the horses and ride south on his own. The others could follow later.

He stopped. Was that a sob coming from the next room? Ears aquiver he waited in tense expectation. Small though it was, he detected the sound again. His frown deepened and he ran his fingers through his hair.

Heaven knew Miss Garrett had had things to cry about in their short acquaintance, but she had never uttered a word of complaint. What could have happened to provoke her to it now? Abstracted, he lay down on the lumpy bed.

Perhaps she was unequal to storming about the world trying to track down a murderer. The more he thought about it, the more he could not believe how reckless he had been to bring her with him. He couldn’t imagine now why he had allowed it—though he rather enjoyed having her nearby. She was certainly different from the society misses of his acquaintance. Not hardened or unladylike, but certainly more experienced in the ways of the world and consequently more independent. And to his mind, more vital.

A vision of her glowing face and shining eyes as she showed him the island’s name in the diary flashed before his mind’s eye. At times her loveliness caught him entirely off guard, and made the breath catch in his throat.

Still, expecting a young lady to face the danger inherent in their investigations, and the rigours of travel, was a bit much. Ladies had delicate constitutions; such stresses could cause collapse in the best of them. He would speak to her before his departure in the morning. She would see that it was best for her to return to London.

Marcus lay awake, though fatigue bludgeoned him like a battering ram. Sleep no longer heeded his summons. He lay supine, and tried to convince his conscious mind to retreat. If only rest were a dog to be lured with sweetmeats.

The more he came to know Danbury, the more he doubted his involvement in the plot. Drat the girl, but Miss Garrett was most likely right on that score. Still, he had learned to never rely on appearances. The traitor who had gulled the ministry for the last five years was a cunning adversary. He would not give himself away easily.

His mind drifted to Miss Garrett. She presented a conundrum. He had never met a young lady like her. He turned on his side, attempting to punch the meagre down of his pillow into some sort of shape. He gave up. He ought not, but nevertheless he conjured up the girl’s image. The spirited gleam in her eye, the graceful arch of her neck, the way she cocked her head when she was reading. Most of all the smile that kissed her lips when she was delighted. At least she knew him as more than a fop.

Would it make any difference?

For the first time since he had assumed the role of a dandy he truly regretted the necessity of the masquerade.

Lydia tossed upon her feather ticking. The delay had them all at sixes and sevens. And she was the worst of the lot. What was she to do once they had discovered the murderer? Where was she to find employment, much less shelter and sustenance? Once his Lordship no longer had common cause with her, he would move on to other more important matters. She had no idea whether he would follow through on his promises. For that matter, she had no guarantee that he would indeed take her on board the Legacy. He could change his mind at any time and there was little she could do about it.

If only she could be enfolded in her parents’ embrace once more. She missed them. Oh, how she missed them. The hurt of their loss had been rekindled fresh and new with Mr Wolfe’s passing. She curled up on her side and covered her mouth to stifle the sob that tore at her throat.

The hours marched on in the steady rhythms of a country night. The moon rose and peered in through the web of barren tree limbs at her window. The wind rattled the branches, shaking away the rain. From deep in the inn someone set to snoring, a deep, gusty sound like the workings of a great bellows, soothing in its own way.

Lydia’s eyes flew open. Heart pounding, she sat up in breathless anticipation. The rasp of covert movement in the hall stood out in stark contrast to the sleepy sounds of the country. Climbing from her bed she grabbed her wrapper and crept to the door. Slipping the latch, she opened it warily and poked her head outside. In the darkness of the hall, she could just make out the bulk of a dark figure surreptitiously slipping into Lord Danbury’s room.

Abandoning caution, Lydia flew after the creature, yelling with all her might. The figure hesitated for a vital instant at the sound of her voice. A jumble of impressions assaulted her. Lord Danbury sitting up, features frozen in a scowl. A knife, gleaming in the cold light of the moon. The flash as metal sliced air, cloth and flesh in a wicked arc.

She leapt at the invader, latching on, her forearm tightly clamped around his throat. The attacker shook himself like a wet dog trying to dislodge her, but she stuck like a burr.

Now on his feet, Lord Danbury hovered nearby, dodging and weaving. He hugged his left arm tight against his chest, but his right hand was curled in a fist. He delivered a rigid jab to the intruder’s nose. Lydia heard the crunch of bone and the man’s head snapped back, hitting her ear with a blow that set it ringing. It wasn’t the first time her ears had been boxed. He could be the killer. She clung to him with all the strength she could muster.

The attacker, having failed to extricate himself from Lydia’s furious grasp, backed violently into the wall, slamming her between it and the force of his own weight. On the third blow, Lydia’s grip failed. She collapsed to the ground gasping for air and trying to shake the stars from her vision. From his pallet on the floor, a blinking and bewildered James managed to fight his way from the tangle of his blankets and jumped to her side.

Lord Danbury charged at the man, but the intruder was like a cornered fox bent on escape. He fled stumblingly from Danbury’s onslaught, placing only one blow—but that landed on Danbury’s wounded shoulder.

Harting stepped from his room as the man emerged. The assailant shoved Harting hard, sending him backwards a few steps, but not knocking him off his feet.

The attacker did not pause to look back as he fled down the stairs, bowling into the innkeeper who had come to investigate the chaos. Picking himself up, the man fled out of the door and a moment later the sound of a horse taking off at a gallop reached them. Harting, having given chase, was trapped by the bulk of the clumsy innkeeper trying to right himself in the narrow stairwell.

Panting, Lord Danbury slumped against the wall of the corridor, holding his injured arm to slow the bleeding. The innkeeper could not seem to decide whether to hurl indignant exclamations after the fleeing intruder, or offer a solicitous hand to Lord Danbury. Ignoring him, Danbury turned back to his room.

Dazed and breathless, Lydia rose on wobbly legs.

“Are you injured, Miss Garrett?” Danbury held out his good hand to steady her.

“I’m quite all right.” She was far more concerned about Lord Danbury’s injuries than her own.

Shaking her head gently to clear it, she dispatched the fussing and fluttering innkeeper to the kitchen for bandages and warm water. The innkeeper’s wife relit the candles, and shooed away the small crowd that had assembled. Harting returned to report that the man had ridden southeast.

“It would appear, my friend, that someone is dead set against your making this journey,” Harting said.

Lord Danbury glowered at the agent. He might have argued, but at Lydia’s insistence he sat down, a tacit acknowledgment that he was in no shape to take off on horseback after the fellow.

Lydia eased the fabric of his nightshirt away from the wound, peering intently at the edges. A clean cut. “It will hurt, but the wound needs to be probed for any stray bits of cloth. If left in place they could fester and cause an infection.”

He nodded, his head bobbing almost drunkenly.

James was turning a delicate shade of apple green. She nodded at him with her chin. “Brandy for his Lordship.”

The valet swallowed hard and, looking relieved, made his escape from the room without protest.

“You seem to know what you’re about.” Harting stood at her elbow watching her work. “How is that?”

Lydia carefully cut away Danbury’s sleeve. “I have a little training in physic.” She rinsed the gash with the scalding water provided by the innkeeper. Despite her gentleness, Lord Danbury grew pale and taut as she assessed the damage and pulled out a few fine threads.

Harting continued to stare and she turned to him. “Do you wish to take over?”

“Heavens no. I am congratulating myself again on having the good sense to ensure that you were brought along.”

“Congratulate yourself over there. I need the light.” As the lamp was brought nearer, Lydia stooped until she was on eye level with her charge. “Your Lordship, the knife sliced through the upper part of the arm, but it seems that the attacker caught only muscle. No tendons or ligaments that might have left a permanent impairment.”

He nodded once in acknowledgment, too dazed or in too much pain to argue that she should not be the one providing ministrations. And really, he was generally a sensible man—there was no one else to do it.

Lydia sopped up the blood and then held the wound open so that the depths could be examined. She removed two tiny scraps of cloth with tweezers provided by Harting’s valet, making a mental note to question why Harting had tweezers at a later date. Danbury’s breathing turned shallow. No doubt he kept from crying out by sheer stubbornness. Sweat stood out on his brow even in the nighttime chill. The clenching and unclenching of his jaw and the odd grimaces were enough to tell Lydia of the pain he endured. She motioned with a slight movement of her chin and Harting positioned himself nearer so he could catch Danbury if he fainted. At last she was able to clean and bandage the wound. Finally she fashioned a sling to protect it from further injury.

The innkeeper produced a vial of laudanum and she dosed his Lordship, which eased his pain and soon had him nodding off. Three of the footmen were brought in from where they had been sleeping in the stables. Pallets were prepared on the floor in front of the guest room doors. Armed with stout cudgels, the footmen were charged with keeping out intruders.

“Are you satisfied now that he is not a part of this plot?” Lydia hissed to Harting as she checked the sleeping Danbury’s wound one more time before leaving the chamber.

“This event would seem to preclude that assumption, although he did escape nearly unscathed.”

A most unladylike growl emerged from the back of her throat as she fought the impulse to strike him. She pushed past him without another word. She could not get the better of him in a verbal joust tonight.

Sleep came slowly. Infection posed a serious danger with such a wound. Questions about their attacker chased one another through the corners of her mind. How had the man found them? Someone must have been following them. She drifted into a fragile doze only after getting up and straightening the twisted bedclothes for the third time.

Morning dawned sombre and windy. Rather than lie in bed brooding, Lydia washed and dressed, relieved to be able to rise at last. Having forgotten the footman sleeping on her threshold, she tripped over him. After soothing the startled man, Lydia hurried downstairs to order breakfast and determine whether there was a real physician nearby who would be able to look in on his Lordship.

Instead she found Danbury already seated at one of the long public tables, trying to eat without moving his left arm. He looked up at the sound of her approach.

“I couldn’t sleep,” he said by way of explanation, and waved his fork vaguely at the many platters of food spread out before him.

Lydia took the seat across from him, and placed a napkin in her lap. “How are you feeling?”

“As well as might be expected.” Lord Danbury grimaced around a bite of eggs.

“Perhaps we should postpone leaving, so a surgeon can examine your wound.”

“I’ll be fine. This attack proves the murderers are still interested in what we’re doing. We cannot delay a moment.”

Lydia didn’t argue. He did seem in remarkably good spirits. And she knew him well enough by now to know he would not be dissuaded from a purpose once his mind was set. He and Harting were much alike in that way. She must simply see to it that his strength would not be taxed.

They ate in contemplative silence. Moments later, a grinning Harting appeared. In no frame of mind for such a display of cheerfulness, Lydia glowered at him.

Harting sat down and helped himself to eggs. “I had already grabbed for the intruder when he shoved me last night.”

Lord Danbury grunted at the seemingly pointless announcement and continued eating. Despite an almost obsessive desire to snub him, Lydia set aside her fork and gazed at Harting with narrowed eyes. He never said anything to no purpose; indeed usually there were at least two purposes being served.

“I thought I felt something pull away from his coat, but with only the light of the candles, I couldn’t find anything after the fracas last night.”

Now even Lord Danbury had perked up and turned an expectant gaze upon him.

“Morning light is a vastly different thing, however.” Harting reached into his pocket and pulled out a small object. “I found this.”